


Jean Valjean and Les Yeux Incoyables

by Readaholics_Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy RPF
Genre: Bad Puns, Canon Era, Digressions, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Makeover, Matchmaking, Mental Health Issues, Middle Aged Virgins, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26963476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readaholics_Anonymous/pseuds/Readaholics_Anonymous
Summary: When Jean Valjean first received the strange letter a week ago, (written on pink stationary and scented with lavender) informing him that some "bona fide experts" were coming to “improve the client’s fashion, living habits and confidence” he had been tempted to drop everything, create a new identity, and go on the run again.Les Mis Queer Eye AU where I indulge in my favourite pairing, Valjean/Self Care
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 23
Kudos: 33
Collections: Sewerchat Anniversary Exchange 2020





	Jean Valjean and Les Yeux Incoyables

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akatonbo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akatonbo/gifts).



> Hi akatonbo, I'm a big fan of your work, I hope you enjoy the story!

On the morning of November 12th, five months after the failed insurrection that had rocked the city of Paris to its core, a new calamity was about to befall one of its inhabitants. 

The doom was heralded by a pale mare... a shaggy, lopsided creature hitched to a small fiacre. It clip-clopped to a halt outside the Rue Plumet. The street being quite narrow, did not permit the vehicle, so the passengers were obliged to descend and continue on foot. 

And descend they did, five or six in total, climbing out one by one like some charming optical illusion, handsome young men all of them, each of a distinct stripe and flourish. In dress they were devotees of Brummell, perfumed and pomaded, with floral-brocade waistcoats and cinched waists, and in attitude they were devotees of Wilde, languid and joyous. 

Linking arms and marching two abreast, they descended upon the house like a pack of festooned bloodhounds. From the wild garden behind the wall, the man known as M. Ultime Fauchelevant - the author will not waste time with information the reader has doubtlessly already deduced- who was none other than Jean Valjean, saw that the day of reckoning was upon him, and dove head-first into the azaleas he had been pruning. (The bush had begun to look insufficiently wild and clashed with the ‘uninhabited-look-no-further’ aesthetic of the property). 

Alas, to no avail, the stylish young men were guided by some sixth-sense. 

“My, my!” Exclaimed one dandy, whose grey hair belied a youthful face, “I’ve never seen rose-bushes sport such a charming wide-brimmed hat!” 

To which the bush replied in a rather peeved voice; 

“They’re azaleas.” 

“Well, Monsieur Azalea-Bush, kindly open this gate at once, or we shall be forced to break it down!” 

Indeed the slim young creature looked more likely to slip between the wrought iron bars than to bend them, but there was steely glint in his eyes that promised to make good of his threat. 

Monsieur the Gardener stood stiffly, brushing dirt from his trousers, and did as he was bid. 

No sooner had the rusty hinges swung open, the young men were upon him, pumping his arms up and down as if he was the village fountain, and practically speaking over each other in their haste to make introductions. 

The poor man was quite overwhelmed, he had not had to deal with such a crowd since his distant days as Mayor of M-sur-M, and even then it consisted mostly of patient listening, soft smiles, and gently pressing alms into outstretched hands. This was like trying to drink out of a fire hydrant. He managed to catch all the names, but found himself quite unable to match it to any faces. 

“Monsieur Fauchlevant, I presume?”

  
  


“Oh surely! He matches the description exactly-”

“What a lovely house!” 

“-And garden! It looks just like the jungle exhibit in the Jardin des plantes.” 

Once or twice he thought he heard hushed exclamations about the breadth of his shoulders, and whether or not he wore “sensible shoes” (Of course he did! How else was he to tend the garden?) No doubt, they were shocked by his labourer’s build and shabby clothes. And no wonder! Next to so many colourful young fellows, he felt hopelessly old and dull.

“I’m sure you know what we’re here for!”

How could he not? He had been looking forward to the visit like a lobster looks forward to the pot. The child to their caster oil. The nail, the hammer. 

When Jean Valjean first received the strange letter a week ago, (written on pink stationary and scented with lavender) informing him that some " _bona fide_ experts" were coming to “improve the client’s fashion, living habits and confidence” he had been tempted to drop everything, create a new identity, and go on the run again. It was only the thought of his beloved daughter that had stayed him. 

His darling Cosette... it was she who sent them, he knew it! To see that she still cared so deeply about his well-being, even amidst her own very busy and joyful life as a newly-wed, made his heart overflow. And he knew in an instant he would have to do it. For Cosette he would walk through knives and fire. 

But this- he groused, as he watched a pack of dandies cavoting through his house, inspecting every drawer, shelf and cupboard- was a new species of ordeal altogether. 

“We are at the house of the wonderful M. Fauchlevant, who was nominated by...someone _very close_ to him, who has requested to remain anonymous.” 

Valjean thought he heard a giggle behind him. _Lord grant me patience, Lord grant me patience-_

“Ultime is sixty-five years old, a well-known philanthropist and enjoys gardening and reading in his leisure-” 

“Why do you keep doing that?” Valjean asked at last, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “Talking out-loud to thin air?” 

“Oh! I’m dictating to our note-taker.” He pointed to a 6th young man who was standing unobtrusively in the corner, scribbling into a notebook. He was plainly dressed and Valjean had quite missed him in the commotion.

“It’s for our monthly magazine, "‘ _Les Yeux Incoyables.’_ ” he recited in a queer accent, not pronouncing the “R” “Monsieur, you must remind me to take you in for some water-colours later!” 

Valjean nodded vaguely and vowed to never bring up the subject again, not if all the hounds of hell were on his heels.   
  


He had somewhat recovered from the shock of socialisation. He no longer moved about in a quiet daze, like an owl who had been woken up by a bright light, starting at every new voice and face, as if unsure where to turn. His head had stopped spinning and his heart had stopped pounding. But it had unnerved him, to see how much he had been affected by the lack of human company, even for so short a while. It had not even been a week since Javert's last visit! (And so what if no one else except Cosette had visited him in months?) There was no reason for him to be so dazed and confused. When he answered simple questions the words seemed to wiggle out of his grasp like eels. He even caught himself stuttering once or twice, to his great embarrassment. Surely this was no great thing, he reasoned with himself, to be alone with only your own thoughts for days on end. It was perfectly natural! Monks, and several species of arachnids, did it all the time. 

The young men had completed their inspection of the house, and had gathered in the living room to compare notes, Valjean had managed to glean that each man was a specialist in their own field, and together they formed a formidable phalanx. All in all, they seemed pleasantly satisfied with what they found; clean and homely rooms, in stark contrast to the dour facade and wild garden. They even managed to endear themselves a little to Valjean by complimenting Cosette’s decorating. (“What deft artistry! What sophistication!”)

By and by, Jean Valjean thought he had jumped the proverbial pistol, until one of them very astutely pointed out that the Monsieur’s room was no were to be seen, and indeed the house seemed to be inhabited only by women- prompting them to turn to him with a rather accusatory air, and Valjean knew the game was up. 

“Messieurs, I have not deceived you, I do live on this property...just not this house. My living quarters are in a separate area.” 

He only got a few raised eyebrows in response. He was relieved by the lack of judgement, but it did make him suspect what kind of clientele they were accustomed to dealing with.

“Very well, lead on Monsieur.” 

That was how he ended up leading a line of young men, like very well-dressed ducklings, down a very hidden and very brambly path. 

“How much further?”

“Antoni! Stop stepping on my heels!”

“Jon, duck!”

“Really? Where- OW!”

“I’m awfully glad I’m wearing lavender, it’s an insect repellant-” 

Valjean took a brief, vindictive pleasure in seeing how effective his brambles were, and then immediately felt guilty about it. It was made worse by how the young men cheerfully took it in their collective 12-legged strides, doling out neither blame or ill-spirits. Was this what he had become now? Some spiteful curmudgeon to those trying to do good, in their earnest (but misguided) way? 

  
  


“We’re here.” He said at last, resolving to give them Madeleine's kindly, but distant smile. Surely there were more polite ways of fending off their advice and questions.

“Oh! What a lovely tool-shed, monsieur.”

  
  


“That is my house.”

The silence was deafening. You could have heard a cricket burp.

Jon (the one who was hit by a branch) was the first to recover himself.

  
  


“Surely not.”

  
  


“It suits my needs.” Valjean replied, just a little defensively. “And humbleness is a virtue-” 

“Can you even turn around in this thing?” 

“It’s very easy to heat in the winter-”

  
  


_ “You spend the winter in there?”  _

And so it went.   


They left the scribe outside to scribble furiously from the small, dim window, and it was still a tight fit inside the little hut. A lot of elbows become accidentally acquainted with a lot of ribs. Not ten minutes later, another dandy was sent outside because he had suffered a nervous shock after seeing the state of Valjean’s wardrobe. 

Back inside, Tan stood in his grey-haired splendor, and held aloft, like the decapitated head of Medusa, a battered, mustard-yellow coat. The others crowded around him in a state of rapt horror, unable to scream or look away. 

Yellow is a truly gauche colour, over-bright and gaudy on anything except the bumble-bee and the daffodil. Mankind’s imitation of nature’s grandeur is enough to make even the most undiscerning nauseous. The item in question was doubly so, for mustard was both yellow and brown, lacking the strength to commit to either, and processing the shortcomings of both. It was offensive to the senses, and worse in coffee. 

“What in heaven’s name is _ that _ ?” 

  
  
“It is my coat.” Valjean replied. 

  
  
“It’s quite heavy.” Tan remarked calmly. 

“It’s... _ incredible _ !”

  
  
A very heated debate followed, and Valjean managed to narrowly save the old coat from the fireplace. To his surprise it was Tan of all people, the fashion expert, who supported him, saying the coat obviously had sentimental value, and it was probably fine to wear out, twice a year, at night. 

They went through the rest of his wardrobe, and grimly declared that he would need a new set, post haste. All the items were older than they were and most were holier than the Pope. 

To his dismay they also went into the pantry, and inspected the quantity and quality of his food. Or lack thereof. It consisted of two loaves of the cheapest black bread and a few wilting vegetables. 

Valjean privately regretted not anticipating this and buying some decoy groceries to put on display, he could always give them to the church later, it would make Cosette much less worried...   
  


The young man ( ...Antoni?...Richard?) turned to him and said in a serious and gentle voice; 

  
“Monsieur, you are not eating enough.” 

  
  
It was the first time they had actually directly criticized him. And all Valjean could do was reply, a little petulantly.

  
  
“Yes I do.”

“There is nothing in your pantry.”

  
  
“Then is that not proof I’ve been eating?” 

  
  
There was another long and heated discussion, this time Valjean argued all the more fiercely, the way people in the wrong often do, too embarrassed to admit their error, and too entrenched to back down. 

The old annoyance was back. Who were these children, who saw fit to criticize him? They lived pampered and comfortable lives of leisure, where fashion and society was their highest calling. What did they know about the ways of the world, that many lived their lives balanced on a precarious tower and there were so many ways a person can fall or cast down, to be crushed by the rubble beneath, to despair of ever reaching the sky again. 

“I am perfectly content with what I have.” Valjean rebutted, when the young men launched into another sermon on health and nutrition. “It may seem like humble, even poor fair to you, but it is more than enough for me. My life is fulfilled, I have lived to see old age, and my daughter, my pride and joy, is married and happy and provided for. What more can I wish for?” 

“To be happy, with her.”    
  
  
An hour later, after the young man had departed and the door was quietly (but firmly) shut, Valjean breathed a sigh of relief. He could not say he enjoyed the experience, but it had been invigorating at the very least, to talk, even argue with other human beings. The quiet in the hut seemed loud by comparison now.    
  


It was not until Valjean had put a kettle on, and had a small fire going, did he feel the familiar current of melancholy begin to wash over him. It was not just sadness, not anymore, but a great, heavy weariness, it seeped into his bones and bound him in a way all that the chains in the dark years of his youth could not. Even then, beneath the sun and lash, burning with rage and pain, he longed for freedom. Now, when the undertow pulled at him, Jean Valjean simply closed his eyes and surrendered to it. 

In the following months after Cosette’s betrothal and the boy’s faltering but inevitable recovery, the pain of separation, which at first had been intense, and threatened to tear him apart at the seams like a rag doll, had been replaced by merciful intervals of numbness. Periods of time where the blinds seemed to have been drawn across his mind and heart, and he was allowed small moments of reprieve. There was peace in this stifling, in the darkness he was safe, in a place where the rage and anguish and light could not penetrate.    
  


He would come out of this state eventually, stumbling back into himself like a man who had taken a wrong turn in the woods, to find the day half-gone, the fire dead in the grate, and a plate of untouched food congealing at his side.   
  
And then he would feel the most intense and inarticulable guilt, and it would spur a bout of manic activity. He would dig the garden until his hands bled, or go on long rambling walks, ones he would have no memory of afterwards. 

This was no way to live.    
  
When the undertow pulled at him again, he tried to resist it _. To be happy. _ He circled the words over and over, like a wild animal trying to figure out a baited trap before it sprung on him. 

It was what he wanted, with all his heart and all his soul, to see his daughter flourish, and share in her happiness, and it had startled him how perceptive the young men had been. Caught off balance, he had told them about a party hosted by the Gillenormands, and when they proposed to buy him a new set of clothes, saying how happy his daughter would be to see him taking care of himself, he had agreed. Now he had a fitting to attend in three days time, and a party at the end of the month. 

His daughter was finally happy and free, out in the world and living her life as a young woman should, and now he was willing to intrude on it. To put her life at risk for his own happiness. Even if Cosette, the angel that she was, where to forgive him for his past, the rest of the world would not be so kind. He had seen good women brought down by bad men, for no more reason than an association, and he would sooner die than to see the jaws of that unforgiving world close upon Cosette.    
  
She could never know. He knew that. But some new clothes, to attend the party she was so excited about hosting, to make her smile and be proud of the man she thought of as father, that would be a more forgivable crime, would it not?    
  


Such was his state, he barely noticed it when Javert arrived at the door, as punctual ever. The sound of the latch turning, the heavy tread of booted feet, and the muffled thump of a great-coat being hung up, slowly brought him out of his revery. Once the slightest noise would have sent him into a blind panic, but now they became common-place, even familiar to him. Indeed, coupled with his strange life, and the way his world had been recently turned upside down, it did not feel strange at all to spend the evening with a man who a few short months ago, would have stopped at nothing to see him behind bars. Indeed, it felt almost inevitable. 

“The fire’s low.” The former inspector said in lieu of greeting, and stooped to thrust another log into the hearth. 

  
  
“Oh, thank you. I hadn’t noticed.”

  
  
Javert methodically raked away some of the ashes with the poker. “You’ve had visitors.” 

  
  
“Yes, some young men. Cosette sent them to...well, it’s a long story. I suppose you must have seen the footprints.”

There was no reply and the silence felt a little forced. 

  
  
“Please, won’t you sit down? I can do that.” 

Javert straightened up and turned to face him, he seemed stiffer than usual, which was saying something, because the man already had a ferocious intensity about him that bordered on the absurd, but now he actually looked like one could have used him for a ram-rod. 

Valjean motion to the kettle. “Tea?”   
  


This was getting awkward, not to mention the inspector’s coattails were dangling dangerously close to the open flames. 

Javert raised his head, and in the grand and somber tones of a judge about to indict himself, intoned; 

“Valjean, I have a confession to make. I have been purposefully deceitful” 

“To whom?” 

  
“To you.”  
  


“About what?” Valjean replied, with a creeping sense of deja vu, of a tableau from many years ago, a masked mayor, a chastised policeman... “We haven’t spoken in a  week.” 

“And this is the reason why. It was me. I was the one who sent for the  _ bona fide _ experts on fashion,  living habits and confidence .”

  
  
“You!” Cried Valjean. 

  
  
“Yes. I was the one who sent  _ Les Yeux Incroyables- _ ”

  
  
_ “Incoyables _ .” Valjean corrected, dazedly.

“I heard about their work through your son-in-law, who heard about them through a late friend, through a late roommate- but that is beside the point. To speak frankly, I was disturbed by the state of your living and I had heard these men were veritable miracle workers when it came to helping hermits, misled flagellants, and the badly dressed. So I nominated you to be their client.” 

“ _ You _ .” Valjean repeated dumbly, feeling for all the world like he had just been hit over the head. 

“I apologize for deceiving you, Valjean, but I did not think I would have convinced you otherwise.”

Javert was staring at his boots, with the ridgid look of someone expecting a blow, and Valjean startled him with one of his rare laughs.   
  


“ _ You _ of all people, saw fit to criticize  _ my _ living habits?”  
  


The inspector did not know whether to be relieved or offended, and so endeavoured to be both. What transpired was the third heated argument of the day, as they had a rapid back-and-forth about which one of them was the most miserly and unfashionable shut-in. Valjean was surprised by his own energy, and found himself laughing again and again, enjoying the light needling and inconsequential topic. 

By the time they adjured, the tea was cold and the fire was low again. This t ime Valjean made it to the hearth first, and amicably nudged Javert aside to rekindle it. He must have pushed him harder than he intended, because when his shoulder met the other man’s chest, Javert went quite red in the face, and stuttered a little when he spoke again.   
  


“If the whole thing really is hateful to you, I mean, if you do not want to do it. I can write to Les Yeux and tell them.”  
  
  
It was his choice then, to decide. Jean Valjean was not a man used to having a choice. For the most part, fate seemed intent to hurl things at him, and he would go over, under, or through it, as best he could. For a moment he was transported back twenty years ago, when the chains were struck from his body and a yellow paper was thrust into his hand. Everything after that was a new, terrifying freedom and his first, hard lesson was that when he went with his instincts, let fear rule his head, and bit the hand that tried to help him, he would make terrible, terrible mistakes.    
  
In his mind’s eye he saw a faint glimmer on the horizon. Was this his future, waiting for him, or just another oncoming storm? And in spite of it all, he dared to hope. Perhaps the great scales of his life had begun to balance at last, and he no longer needed to spend the rest of his life repenting for his past.    
He made his choice. 

  
  


  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Nonners for beta-ing!
> 
> An "Incroyable" was a French dandy from the late 18th century, they were often called "Incoyables" by people mocking their upper-class accents.  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Incroyables_and_merveilleuses  
> \---  
> Edit: I fixed the timeline a little, bc it wasn't making sense.


End file.
